


After

by GriffinHeart



Category: Fallout 4
Genre: Body Horror, Canon-Typical Violence, Gen, Ghouls, Sad Ending, radiation poisoning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-19
Updated: 2020-07-19
Packaged: 2021-03-05 06:15:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,839
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25389652
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GriffinHeart/pseuds/GriffinHeart
Summary: Avery Watson survived the apocalypse.
Relationships: Gen - Relationship
Comments: 1
Kudos: 4
Collections: Multifandom Horror Exchange (2020)





	After

**Author's Note:**

  * For [inquisitor_tohru](https://archiveofourown.org/users/inquisitor_tohru/gifts).



> TW: Gore related to the effect radiation can have on the skin. Description of burns. One mention of vomit.
> 
> Prompt: The effect of radiation on the general populace.

Avery Watson survived the end of the world. He was proud of this accomplishment.

His footsteps echoed across the empty downtown street, broken glass crunching beneath his worn leather boots. Everything was quiet after the bombs. Cars remained parked in front of banks, post offices, barbershops, long abandoned by their owners. The lucky ones ran to the vaults when the first warning sirens aired. The others just had to hide and hope.

Avery walked past another dented Cadillac and spotted a carton of cigarettes still in the cupholder. He gingerly pushed his gloved hand into the car’s driver seat window, glass shattered by the concussive wave. He snagged the box and grinned, the three cigarettes were luxury items now. He gave a silent prayer of thanks to the dead man who must have sprinted from his car in a hurry. Maybe he was running to the nearby phonebooth to call his wife one last time. Or maybe he sprinted into the bank, a pile of warped beams and crumbled brick, hoping the building could give him desperately needed shelter.

This was how Avery passed the time. Guessing about other people’s lives, their hobbies, and how they died. He hadn’t seen a single survivor since the bomb went off. Life was quiet.

The day of the blast was an uneventful one. Avery was working as delivery driver for the local grocery, dropping off milk and vegetables throughout the sprawling suburbia he now called his home. He was a boring man with a boring job, and when the warning sirens went off he only had a few moments to regret not investing in a vault.

Upon reflection, he had never felt more alive than he had during those few minutes of panic. His heart beat wildly in his chest, sweat dampened his forehead, and no matter how hard he tried he couldn’t keep a steady breath. He lifted up a manhole cover and lowered himself into the nearby sewer, squeezed his eyes shut and prayed to a god that he didn’t believe in.

In the dark tunnel he wasn’t able to witness the nuclear blast. One moment he was panting in the dark, a warm sludge soaking the trouser legs of his uniform, and the next moment was near indescribable. Avery was certain there was a loud noise, a wave of some form of pressure, but he couldn’t recall the sound. When this wave of something passed through him, it stole the air from his lungs and the blood from his nose. Everything had tasted of iron since the explosion, and his hearing had never recovered.

He waited for an eternity in the dark, robbed of sight and sound. It could have been five minutes, or five hours. Time slipped away from him in his panic. When he pulled himself from his intended coffin he had to squint against the harsh sun above. The color was off. Just different enough from blue to cause the hair on the back of his neck to rise. Once he had crawled out of the hole he swayed, a wave of nausea rising in his stomach. He leaned against his delivery truck, windows shattered, and yelped as his hand touched its metal surface. It was like pressing his hand to a stove, though there was no expected glow of heat. The flesh of his hand puckered and bubbled, a row of ugly red lesions, sore to the touch. They never faded.

That night he wandered, looking for any survivors. He didn’t find any.

Breaking into his old workplace to steal food was a surprisingly therapeutic experience. After a night of hunger he was practically giddy to ransack his boss’ inventory. He realized something important as he ate from boxes of cereal, dried meats, and drank unspoiled milk. Avery was alone.

He didn’t recall the last time he was alone.

The next morning he awoke in a haze, lying upon the ground of his old grocery store. His thoughts were muddled. He shook his head to try and clear the muffled high-pitched ringing, but nothing worked. It took moments of confusion before he bolted up, remembering the nuclear apocalypse of the day before. His hearing wasn’t going to return quickly. Avery stood and hissed. His skin burned. It was bright red, and peeling off in large flaking clumps. Each movement made his arms, legs, and back itch horribly. Avery moved to scratch at his back, and saw what remained of his left hand. The lesions had grown and begun oozing overnight. Twitching his fingers tore the delicate regrowing skin, unleashing the wound to the painful air once more.

Day two of his new reality started with pain and an immobile hand. At least it could only go up from there. He fetched gloves from the nearby department store, stepping gingerly over the piles of shattered glass and tipped over aisled. With his injured hand covered it would at least be easier to ignore.

His life developed a new routine. Eat food from local stores, check the status of his injuries (never healing), and wander around downtown. Initially he looked for survivors, but after a week he gave up. He was probably alone, but Avery didn’t really mind. He was almost enjoying himself in the silence and solitude of his new world. Sure, his hand was useless, his skin was shedding worse and worse with each passing day, but he was almost having fun. It was freeing, the lack of responsibilities. His medical situation was manageable, he adapted to the pain and random bouts of debilitating nausea, and he got to do whatever he wanted. Avery didn’t remember the last time, before the bomb, when he had felt happy. Now, almost every day was enjoyable. He enjoyed picking through rubble, entering random homes, and the silence that followed him. It was peaceful.

The days and weeks began to blend together. He never bothered to keep track. The first interruption to his routine was an unwelcome discovery. Avery was picking through cans in his grocery store when a shadow fell behind him. He froze, but didn’t turn around. It was one of the crumbling shelves falling over, he reasoned, nothing to be concerned about. The ringing in his ears gave him no hints.

Something touched Avery’s shoulder.

He turned and flinched, backing up against the aisle, as far away from the thing in front of him as he could get. It was human-shaped, but its skin was gone. It was a dripping mess of red and clear fluids, its only distinguishing features being the whites of its eyes and the clothes it was wearing. A torn, ragged suit. The thing was moving its hand up and down in front of Avery’s face, its lips moving.

Avery frowned and shook his head, pointing to his ears. The thing, seemingly sentient, stopped moving its hand and frowned. It stepped back, raised one finger, and ran out of the store. Avery’s heart was beating in his ears, an uneven staccato of stress. He ran his good hand through his hair, and shook off the stringy clumps of white that came with it. He didn’t want to know how much hair he had left.

After a moment the thing came back holding a pen and a piece of cardboard. It scribbled something and held it up to Avery’s face.

_Name’s John. Anyone with you?_

Avery frowned at the thing. Who called itself John, apparently. He grabbed the pen and wrote back.

_What the hell are you?_

John looked confused.

_A survivor? There’s a group of us down the road if you want to come. We’ve been looking for anyone above ground._

Avery bristled.

_Why do you look like that?_

He didn’t really feel in the mood for pleasantries. John slouched when he read the board.

_The bomb did weird shit. Started with blisters, then I lost hair and skin, some senses, and now here I am._

John held up the board for Avery to read, but then took it back to add a sentence.

_Have you looked in a mirror lately?_

Avery pushed John back, hissing at the pressure to his hand, and walked past him. He didn’t need to be with a group of cripples. He survived the apocalypse. He was fine alone. He was thriving.

John grabbed his shoulder again, but Avery shook out of his grip. He turned and scowled at John, hoping he would get the message.

John raised his hands in a placating gesture, and began to back out of the store. He grabbed the pen and scribbled something else on the cardboard, before setting it on the ground. He left without another action.

_1295 Minnaker St. About 5 of us there. Come when you’re ready._

The next week was spent in a haze of anger and outrage. Avery was seething. He was surviving fine by himself, and he didn’t want any pity. His food stores, while still abundant, felt like congealed mush in his stomach. Everything tasted like blood. When the nausea grew too high, his vomit was flecked with red and black.

He learned those nights that crying hurt. His skin was so tender that his own tears were like dragging knives down his face. He decided that he needed to find a mirror.

He grabbed the cardboard by the door, scribbled a note on it, and left to find John.

1295 Minnaker Street was lively. Going from a month of no-contact to walking into a house with five others was overwhelming. He froze in the doorway, looking around at the piles of mattresses, blankets, books and food in the shelter, as well as the four blistered, bloodied patrons resting in chairs and sleeping bags around the room. A familiar man stepped out from a room in the back and grinned. His white teeth practically shone compared to the mess of his face. Avery stepped back, frowning at the jubilant man, and held out his sign.

_Need mirror._

John’s grin dimmed, but he walked up and led Avery by the elbow through the house, and out the back door. His lips were moving, but Avery couldn’t dredge up enough emotion to stop and correct him. He was led to a pond, five minutes from the makeshift house.

John led him close to the edge of the pond before letting go of his arm, stepping back, and turning towards the house. At least the man valued privacy.

Avery took the final steps towards the pond’s edge. The water was still. He took a deep breath and leaned forward.

His eyes widened, and his hands flew to cover his mouth. The skin on his face was practically gone, only few patches remained, hanging on by loose threads. He was seeping liquid, a puss of red and white from every missing pore. His hair was white, only 3 patches remaining, stained red and grease-filled. The whites of his eyes were stark as his mouth opened and screamed, bloody spittle splashing into his pond reflection.

The silence was overwhelming.

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you liked it.


End file.
